Renaissance
by mitsys
Summary: A renaissance is just pieces of art in time, bursts of inspiration that loop together so seamlessly it's impossible to believe that one moment sparked a revival. Yato likes to think his renaissance was the minute she bound forward to push him. A collection of pieces that make up a street musician's step back into the spotlight, and the people that helped bring him into it.
1. Iron

_the iron in my blood_  
 _is magnetized to you in such a way_  
 _that i'm sure that we must have met before_  
 _in another world._  
 _another life._

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Renaissance

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The first time he meets her, she's shoving him out of the way of a motorcycle.

He feels a twinge of misplaced deja-vu deep in his chest as he hits the concrete, but her arm punches his breath out from in-between his shoulderblades before he can think too hard about it. She lands half on top of his back and half against the asphalt, and as she scrambles to her knees, Yato pushes himself up on his forearms. He wheezes a little as he rolls over to sit up, and catches a glance at his savior.

She doesn't look like the kind of person to shove a guy out of the street, but he tries not to base opinions on appearances.

He doesn't miss the way she tucks her left arm gingerly against her chest. Yato's about to open his mouth to apologize, but she beats him to the punch before he can, brown hair escaping her pink scarf as she shouts at him.

"Are you _nuts?!_ " She flings her right arm, her good arm, out into the direction of the street. "That guy could have hit you!"

Yato pushes back the urge to scoff indignantly. So much for apologizing. "Not my fault he was going over eighty on a public street!I had the right of way anyway!"

She pushes herself to her feet, wobbling a little on adrenaline-weak ankles. He can tell she's got an era's worth of ferocity left in her, but he blinks and it's gone, leaving a brown eyed girl with windswept hair and a hurt shoulder. Her fingers tighten around the wrist of her other hand. "Whatever. Just look both ways next time."

As she turns her back on him, Yato numbly realizes how many people are stuck in place, observing the entire encounter at a safe distance. Their eyes follow her back across the street, and suddenly Yato is alone again, watching some girl gather her things and walk away from the mess he made. He's dusting his hands off on his pants when he looks back up, and their eyes meet one last time before she turns away again, taking long strides across the bus terminal.

He gathers his violin case and and trudges back to his apartment, wishing that for once, people would stop looking at him.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The next time he sees her, it's 10pm and he hates his life. Daikoku is hounding his ass over a snide remark he made at a customer, and the bell jingles cheerily from the front of the diner. Daikoku whirls away from him to greet the newcomer, and Yato moves to find Kofuku as she calls his name from the break-room.

A flash of brown and pink stops him in his tracks.

She's all smiles and bright eyes, a stark, strange contrast to the furious girl he'd seen a few days prior. Her right arm is in a sling, the white linen glaring at him from under her unbuttoned coat. Yato's heart drops. He had truly fucked her over, and the heavens were punishing him for it. Her eyes move to him, brown and searching, and Yato ducks behind the counter in the blink of an eye.

He hears her stutter her order, and he hopes desperately that she didn't recognize him. He doesn't move until he hears the bell jingle again, and by then his heart has stopped its wild thrumming in his chest. Kofuku kickstarts it again as she leans off of the edge of the counter, her face suddenly inches from his.

"Why are you hiding, Yatty?"

Yato narrowly avoids knocking his head against the cabinet as he scrambles away. "I can't be seen by her." He spits out, words tangling together in his mouth, and Kofuku doesn't hide her confusion.

"You mean Hiyori?" She asks innocently, and Yato rubs angrily at the back of his neck. She must have dislocated her shoulder or something when she was saving his ass. Just his luck, the only person to ever notice him beyond a few idle moments got struck with physical injury.

When he doesn't respond, Kofuku takes it as a sign to continue. "Hiyorin is super sweet, she was really late on her order today though. Usually she shows up before your shift and gets a piece of the coconut creme cake for her mother." Kofuku paused, tapping thoughtfully on her pink lips with a painted nail. "I wonder what happened to her arm."

Yato scrambles to his feet, and with a glance to the clock, he rips off his apron and shoves it towards Kofuku. "I gotta go. You can dock my pay- but I gotta get home."

He's out the back door and into the street before Daikoku or Kofuku can run him down and ask him questions, and the winter air stings his face. He really should have grabbed his coat before dodging the last two hours of his shift, but that girl is stuck on his mind like glue.

It was his fault she was wrapped up in a sling. Gods, he was such a douchebag.

He folds his arms, hunching his shoulders over to shield himself against the chill. The rest of the walk is cold and miserable, and his apartment isn't much different. He figures he should be thankful he found an affordable place to sleep at all.

For the first few weeks after his great escape, he was alternating between sleeping on benches and under bus stop awnings. He'd holed up at a homeless shelter for a week before he finally landed a job at Kofuku's, and after months of working double shifts and sleeping in the breakroom, he'd managed to put a down payment on his own place.

He supposes that's as good as it got for any teenage runaway his age. Maybe even better.

Yato sniffs as he sets a kettle on, and after a moment he hops up onto the counter beside the stove, feeling the residual heat from the gas burner. Winter was coming on strong, and since groceries and bills left little room for anything besides the bare necessities, he also figures he's going to have to pull some extra hours to afford any kind of heating. He clicks his socked heel against the cheap pressboard of his counter. He doubts he can even afford heating; A winter coat, maybe, but not heating. His electric bill was enough already.

His eyes wander to the violin case in the corner. There was always a few odd hours in the cold for a couple thousand yen, but he never liked doing that anyway, much less when it was freezing cold out. Tucking his chin in his palm, he contemplates dragging himself out there just to play for a bunch of strangers for a mystery value at the end of the day. Was it even worth it?

With a pouty look at the (late) bills on the countertop, he figures it can't be much worse than any other odd jobs he'll find around town.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Yato notices his one-person audience after about two pieces, but waits until the third to acknowledge him. The sniffling from the bench a few feet away prompts him to turn and look at the visitor, and Yato is dimly surprised his guest is an adolescent boy and not a homeless man.

He looks small for whatever age he's supposed to be, but ruffled enough Yato supposes he's trying to make himself seem bigger. The messy blond hair and scruffy winter coat makes Yato think of a stray cat. He's reminded of Mizuchi for a moment, with her razor sharp smiles and stone cold goodbyes.

The kid sees him looking his way, and puffs up a little underneath the shoddy faux fur of his jacket. "What are you looking at, you college reject?"

"I'm looking at the kid who's been watching me earn a winter coat for the past hour." Yato calls back, raising his voice over the distant roar of a subway arriving.

The kid bristles at the comment and turns his face away. "Whatever. I'm not sure why I bothered to listen to you anyway." He shoves himself up from the bench with a huff, and tosses a 1000 yen note into Yato's open violin case. Yato stares at the note long after he's gone, and wonders why such a young kid was hanging around a bus station alone anyway.

The kid is back the next day, and he sits and watches from a spot two benches away. Yato pretends not to recognize the olive green of his coat. They don't exchange words this time around, but it ends similarly, with a 500 yen note in his case and a retreating figure.

He shows up again day after day, and by the fourth Yato's set up a routine. Come at 3, when the students are starting to get off, and play until his shift at 7. He cycles through pieces like clockwork, muscle memory and improv guiding him while his mind wandered.

The kid shows up right as he sits down to rest his feet. Figuring he should give his biggest fan at least a little attention, Yato leans a little to call in his direction.

"Hey, kid."

He jumps when Yato acknowledges him, like he's surprised to be seen at all, and Yato wonders if he's used to lurking like this. Yato sits up, propping his elbows on his knees. "You can sit closer when I play, you know. The sound's better anyway."

"Like I wanna sit next to a smelly street musician." The kid fires back, and Yato feels the corner of his mouth twitch. He can't tell if it was into a smile or a grimace, but he figures it doesn't matter anyway.

"I shower daily, probably more than you, you little dirtmonkey." Yato sits back again, stretching his legs out in front of him, and pretends not to notice the kid's angry gaze boring into the side of his head. It goes silent for a few moments before the kid finally moves again, and Yato is surprised when a shadow blocks his view of the bus terminal. He'd been expecting the punk to drop another couple of coins into his case and go on his merry way again, but it seemed time had made him bold.

His arms are folded in front of his chest, probably to make him seem tougher than he is, but Yato just sees a bitter kid with an attitude. A uniform is peeking out from under his coat, purple on black. He was just in middle school, it seemed.

"Where did you learn how to play?" He asks, and Yato shifts.

He closes his eyes. Images flash behind his lids, of hardwood floors and the steps to the Tokyo Concert Hall; of motel rooms and train stations. "My father."

"That's not an enlightening answer." The kid says back, and Yato cracks an eyelid to glare at him.

"Why are you so interested?"

If the question bugs him, he doesn't show it. "I play."

Yato raises a brow and takes a deep breath before sitting up. "Play what?"

"Cello." He answers, but Yato sees a glimmer of uncertainty flicker behind his amber brown eyes. Obviously the kid was looking for some kind of advice, but if there's one thing Yato's sure of, it's that he's looking for it in the wrong person. If he needed someone to teach him shit, he should look for some cute girl on the honor roll, not some street musician.

He figures he should be saying all of this to the kid instead of thinking it, but instead he folds his arms over his chest. He was good at resigning himself to things, and this is no exception. Yato nudges his violin case with the heel of his foot, pushing it farther up under the bench. It seemed he was going to be here a while. "What do you want to know?"

"How do you remember all those pieces? You never use sheet music or a mp3 player when you play."

The stinging snap of a ruler echos in the bones of his forearms, and Yato averts his gaze to the grubby tiles of the terminal's floors. "I just memorized them. Muscle memory goes a long way, kid."

The kid scrunches his nose at him, the little wrinkles making him look even younger than he already did. "I'm not 'kid.'" He mumbles. "I'm Yukine."

The sound of snow.

His eyes are a weird shade of orangey brown when Yato meets them, like someone lit a match behind his irises, but Yato shrugs and sits back. "Alright, Yu-ki-ne." He draws the name out in syllables and watches the kid's brows furrow in irritation. "I'll tell you a secret: it's all practice."

"I know that." Yukine retorts. Yato puts his hands up in a retreat.

"Well I mean, I only got good because of my father's standards." Standards. Sharp pains and wounds along his arms. Standards. You couldn't hurt the hands, the hands were the livelihood of the instrument. Always the arms, always aim for the arms- Yato twitches his nose. "You got someone lookin' after you and that cello pipedream?"

The kid, _Yukine_ , does a complete one-eighty. His muscles freeze solid under his skin and his face tightens, and Yato wishes he could snatch the words out of the air. The moment passes and Yukine seems to snap out of it, whipping his head to the left to glare at the signs along the ceiling. "No."

Obviously something wasn't right here. Yato studies at the side of the kid's face, searching his profile and coming up with nothing. "Who are you playing for?" He asks, but the question falls flat.

"Myself." Yukine snaps back, turning back around to give Yato a bristling glare. "I'm not playing for anyone."

"Inspiring." Yato says back, narrowing his eyes. Not something he could relate to, not much anyway. "What's your goal, then?"

Yukine folds his arms tight across his chest. "To get better, that's all. I want to be good at something, good enough that people notice and admire me. I've been playing for a year and I don't feel like I'm getting any better."

Yato feels a twinge of nostalgia deep in his chest, sweet and bitter all at once. He wanted to get noticed, huh? An admirable cause, although very different from his own drive. He knows the things he's pushed himself for, but none of them were self-satisfaction. Self-preservation, maybe, but he doesn't think that's entirely internal. He watches Yukine fidget with the hem of his coat for a moment before standing up. "Come back tomorrow, I'll bring something that might help."

"Like I'm gonna trust a random dude I met in a bus station." Yukine says, but Yato rolls his eyes in response as he dips to pick up his violin back up out of the case.

"You were gonna show up anyways, weren't you?" When the kid gives a halfhearted, guilty stare to the floor, Yato shoves back the urge to laugh at him as he pushes his case back into the walkway. "Now you'll at least get something out of it."

"Fine."

Yukine goes rummaging in his pocket, most likely for some money, and Yato stops him. "You don't have to give me your lunch money every time you stop by. Don't you have something more important to spend it on?"

Yukine looks away again and shrugs roughly, the shoulders of his too-big coat almost touching his ears with the movement. "I figured if I'm gonna take up space, I should at least make it worth other people's time."

Yato ignores the pang in his chest. This kid was confusing him like a crossword puzzle, only he was more time consuming and harder to walk away from. He raises his violin and set it on his shoulder, nudging his case with a foot. "You shouldn't feel obligated to pay for the space you take up."

The kid gives him one last lingering look before turning on a heel and heading the other way, and Yato watches him go as he rubs wearily at the side of his head. A headache is just starting to build, throbbing weakly in his temples, and he's not surprised.

It's been a long week, after all.


	2. Copper

_you learn in 7th grade_  
 _that people are made of stardust._  
 _but what if_  
 _some people were more star than dust?_

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

He spends that evening surrounded by dusty paper and old method books, the smell of old glue sticking to the inside of his nose.

The smell brings back vivid memories of travel and hotel rooms, of Mizuchi and his father, and after an hour of scavenging he finally finds what he's looking for. Smoothing out the doggy-eared pages, Yato flips through the notebook, each page flashing past with a 'fwip' and a crinkle. There's things glued inside: cut-out chunks of sheet music, lines of composer's pieces.

A photograph.

Mizuchi is solemn besides him, her viola limp at her side, and he is bright eyed with an award in one hand and his violin in the other. His father's thumb is in the shot, a blurry tan smudge in the bottom of the photo. A startling slice of white catches his eyes, and Yato lingers on it.

Bandages, peeking out from under his sleeves. Even in faded print, they're still stark and ugly against the black fabric of his tuxedo jacket. The corner of his mouth twitches in to a grim smile. The bandages had only chafed the wounds more; he remembers rubbing them wistfully in the car before the performance. His father had joked and said he'd drawn his arms before his appearance, and they had no time to wash it off.

He supposes those words were just as good a coverup as the bandages were.

Yato rips that page out and puts the notebook next to his stack of collected method books.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yukine doesn't show up. Yato keeps the practice books in the front pocket of his violin case, just in case.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

"Don't fuck up the register while I'm gone, smartass."

Yato slouches on the counter stool he's sitting on, propping his chin in his palm. "You should be telling your fiancee that. She's got the worst luck when it comes to money."

Daikoku thumps him in the temple with his middle finger, and Yato rubs at the minor hurt indignantly as he disappears into the break room. The back door opening and closing lets him know he and Kofuku are now the only ones in the diner, and with a sigh, Yato slumps further down onto the counter. The kid didn't show up, and now his work day was going to be spent sitting idly in front of a register. Great.

Business was slow, as it always is on Sunday nights, and he begins to contemplate the idea of never seeing a human face again when the bell jingles.

Sitting up to look across the shop, he freezes when he sees brown hair. A pink scarf comes into view next, and Yato fidgets. Maybe she wouldn't recognize him. Not many people remembered his face anyway, he was easily forgettable, especially when the only interesting thing he did was play violin on sidewalks.

The girl is pulling out her wallet when she makes her way to the counter. Yato sits rigidly, hoping maybe if he was still enough she would look right through him. It worked for zebras, when they froze in tall grass and waited for the lion to pass, why wouldn't it work for him?

The girl seems more like a domesticated cat than a lioness, but he supposes the metaphor was flawed before he noticed that, anyway.

She glances up a little bit as she brings out her wallet (some cutesy thing with cartoon kittens on it,) and Yato notices her nails are pink, just like her scarf.

"A slice of the coconut creme cake, please-" She doesn't look up all the way, too busy grabbing coins (she was obviously an exact-change kind of girl,) and he hears Kofuku burst through the kitchen doors.

"Hiyorin! I was beginning to think you weren't going to come today!" The girl (Hiyorin? Hiyori? Which was it again?) looks up wildly, and as Kofuku leans to grab her for a hug over the counter, coins from her wallet go spilling. They clatter and clang against the wood and scatter across the floorboards, and Yato flinches as the third one hits the ground.

Hiyori doesn't seem to be paying attention, a little preoccupied with something else, and Yato realizes with a start that the 'something else' was him. She snaps out of it and leans to stop a runaway coin before it rolls off the counter, and Yato jumps into action, ducking to grab the ones that went over the edge.

The five yen coins feel heavy in his hand as he gives them back, and she tucks them back into her wallet. Kofuku peers over Hiyori's shoulder. "Oopsies, I guess my bad luck is extra bad today."

Yato clears his throat, mouth surprisingly dry. "You wanted the coconut creme cake right?" She nods and Kofuku announces that she'll go get it, disappearing back behind the kitchen doors. The two remaining people are left in an awkward silence, and Yato puts her money in the register, not paying attention to where he was putting the bills and coins.

"You're that guy I pushed out of the way of a motorcycle." She says bluntly, breaking the silence, and Yato makes a face down at the register drawer. Obviously she was not one to beat around the bush.

"Yeah, you found me." He sighs. The bush was thoroughly beaten, and he was fucked. "Is your arm okay?"

She absentmindedly touches her left arm at the elbow, as if she's surprised he noticed at all. "It's fine- just fine actually. It was a minor dislocation, my parents are just worrisome so they made me keep it in a sling. Over-protective doctors, you know?"

Yato doesn't know, protective parents weren't on his life resume, but he nods numbly anyway. "Thanks for that."

"I did what anyone would have done." She answers honestly, and Yato isn't sure if it's naivety or optimism behind her assumption.

He averts his eyes. "No, I don't think anyone else would have done that."

She opens her mouth the respond, but Kofuku bursts back in before she can get a word in edgewise. She has the slice of white cake in hand, and she sets in on the counter with a flourish, wrapped neatly in a pink paper bag. Hiyori takes it gratefully, almost hesitating as she steals another glance at Yato's face. "I've got practices after school now, so I'll be late picking up this order from here on out. I'll make sure to get in before closing time, though."

Kofuku shoots her a brilliant smile. "Anytime is good, Hiyorin! I'll make sure to save you a slice for when you come in!"

"Ill see you tomorrow." She says to both of them, not just Kofuku, and Yato feels his ears burn. If she was coming after five from now on, she would be coming right in the middle of his night shift. Just his luck.

The door jingles again as she leaves, and Yato sets his chin in his hand again. Kofuku dances around to the other side of the counter, propping her arms up on the wood. "You know Hiyorin, Yatty?"

Yato pouts and turns his face away from her. A metallic shine by his elbow catches his eye, and he reaches out for it. It's a coin, a five yen coin, and he figures the girl must have left it after her wallet mishap. He runs his thumb against the smooth edge. "Yeah, I met her once."

"O~oh?" Kofuku invades his personal space again to question him further, and Yato leans back just a tad. "How'd you meet her?"

Shitty drivers. Bad luck. The act of a vengeful god. He can feel the concrete on his face, and her elbow in the small of his back. "She shoved me out of the way of a motorcycle."

Kofuku jerks so hard Yato narrowly avoids falling off the back of the register chair. "She did that?! For you?"

"Yeah."

"She doesn't even know you!" Kofuku exclaims. "You're just some random guy to her!"

Yato flinches. "Yeah."

She jumps excitedly, clasping her hands together. Her violet irises glitter, and Yato narrows his own eyes. Kofuku wasn't trustworthy when she got that look on her face. "And she's actually a regular at my diner, that you work at!" Yato doesn't follow her train of thought, and Kofuku leans forward to tap him smartly on the nose. "It must be fate then!"

Scoffing, Yato turns away, folding the five yen coin over in his palm.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

He has a dream about Mizuchi that night.

She'd been expressionless and silent the night he'd left, watching him with eyes dark enough they looked black in the dim lighting of his bedroom. He didn't pack a lot- they traveled too much for him to keep much of anything, anyway- and she followed him to the door, light enough on her feet that she didn't have to avoid the loose floorboards to stay silent. (Yato had memorized the exact panels in the two months they'd taken up shop here; there was no use sneaking out if you didn't know what you were doing.)

He hesitates by the door, and she latches onto the insecurity. "Father will come looking, you know." She says quietly, (could she can be anything but quiet?) and Yato shrugs, shouldering his violin case further up onto his back.

"He won't find me, not unless you run and tell him I'm leaving." He wonders why she wasn't doing just that. It was obvious she didn't want him to leave, so why was she standing here seeing him off instead of stopping him? Yato eyes her from under his lashes. "Are you going to cry wolf the second I open this door?"

"If I was going to, I would have already." She replies easily. "He'll find you anyway, you do remember last time, don't you?"

He does remember last time, but he ignores the dread in his gut to fake nonchalance. "I won't get caught, then." Yato puts his hand on the door. The cold press of the steel against his palm grounds him, giving him just enough courage to turn the handle. It opens noiselessly, to his relief, and he huffs a breath into the cooling night air. Spring was a good time to run away, right? There hadn't really been a manual on this.

Yato pauses one last time at the bottom of the stairs, turning his face up to look at Mizuchi. She has her arms clasped behind her back, her pale, doll-like face twisted into a frown, and Yato suddenly feels the need to say something. A reassurance, maybe.

"It'll be fine." Is the only thing he can manage through his chapped, torn lips, and it feels weak. A weak excuse for a placation.

If his words mean anything to her, she doesn't show it. "You'll be back." She says it like a fact, not a question or an educated guess, but a bitter truth, and Yato's fingers twitch around the handle of his bag. She blinks at him, dark lashes fluttering over her cheeks. "We'll always be the only ones here for you."

The only ones. She looks too old for twelve years old, and he wonders what she might have been like if things had been different. Maybe it wouldn't have to end like this. He wonders if this is even the end.

Yato ignores the shaky waver in his voice, forcing himself to look more surefooted than he felt. "Thanks for everything, Hiiro."

He wakes up with his breath caught in his throat.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yato decides on one more day at the bus station. Trudging the half mile in the cold was worth it, even if he just got a couple thousand yen for his troubles. It added up quickly; the coins and notes were certainly stacking up in the tupperware hidden in his cabinet.

He's not expecting someone to be sitting in his usual spot, but when he sees the olive green coat he's not surprised. The kid is sitting with his face turned away, and when Yato gets close, he jumps back like an abused dog. Yato sets down his case and puts his hands up in a retreat. "I'm surprised to see you here, kid. I figured you went off and found a life yesterday."

The kid (Yukine, he really needs to get a grip on that) narrows his eyes and huffs. "I just ran into a bit of trouble. By the time I finally got here, you were long gone."

Yato feels a smidgen of guilt; he hadn't left early, but if he'd waited a little longer he might have caught him. A closer inspection of the boy's face makes him notice the bruise on his left cheek, covered shoddily with concealer that's just a shade too tan. It's a good job if you weren't expecting someone to look closely at you, but Yato has always thought himself to be pretty perceptive.

"You get in a fight?" He asks, and Yukine freezes up.

"I-" He pauses uncertainly. "Yeah. A couple kids cornered me after school."

It's a lie, but Yato accepts it with grace. He wasn't the kid's father, he was some random, broke street musician he met by accident. Yato reaches down to unzip the front pocket of his violin case, pulling out the stack of method books. "I said I had shit to help, and I'm a man of my word."

Yato hands them out and notes the shaky hesitation Yukine's hands before he takes them. "You mean you don't want them anymore?"

"I don't need them." Yato answers simply. "I've done all the exercises in there so many times my hands hurt when I look at them. I just kept 'em out of sentimentality."

The kid makes a face down at them, and Yato thinks he's gonna cry for a moment before he lifts his head. "Thanks, I guess." He thumbs the stapled edges, stopping at the spiral notebook near the bottom. Yato watches him pull it out and flip it open, eyebrows furrowing at the contents.

"You're giving me your journal?"

"It was a practice log." Yato folds his arms and shifts his weight to his left leg. "You can learn a lot from what helps other people."

Yukine flips though another few pages before stopping at the half mark. "It ends halfway through, though."

Yato knows where it ends. It ended the day he got out, and it ended the night he slept on a bus terminal rest bench. He stopped writing his stupid practice logs when he stopped practicing and started playing for a living. "You can continue where I left off, start your own. Or you can toss it out, see if I care."

The kid doesn't bristle or frown, like Yato expects, but instead he tucks it carefully under his arm. "Why did you give me this?" He gestures to the stack of paper. "All of this."

Truth be told, Yato had no fucking clue. The memory of the girl, Hiyori, pushing him out of the street comes to the surface, and the nearly-healed bruises ache under his skin. Yato rubs the one on his elbow absentmindedly, looking at the floor. Karma was bullshit. She'd saved his ass by the skin of her teeth, and got nothing out of it but a dislocated shoulder and an awkward situation.

Giving some kid a couple of method books was different from shoving a guy out of the way of a moving vehicle. What shitty outcome could be worse than what she got for helping him?

Turning his mouth into a lopsided frown, Yato scuffs his heel against the pavement. "Consider it me paying forward a favor."


	3. Bronze

_when you fall off of your pedestal_  
 _i'll help you up_  
 _and teach you how to walk again_

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

The next day, 'Hiyori' gives him a bright smile and leaves a five yen coin in the tip jar.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

The kid reappears two days after their last meeting, while Yato is trying to run his way through one of Strauss's works, and Yato trails the piece off before moving to greet him. He looks tired, with a bedhead and another bruise on the underside of his jaw, but Yato looks past it to the method book in his hand.

Yukine has doggy-eared a page near the front, and after a look at it Yato recognizes as it as a minor scale.

"I don't know what this note is." He points at a note on a ledge line three below the staff, and Yato sees the sharp sign next to it. Yukine folds his arms, looking frustrated with himself for having to ask, and Yato wonders if he actually has anyone else to go to for advice besides him.

"It's a g-sharp." An unsettling thought comes to mind, and Yato thumbs the black ink making up another note. "Do you know what this is?"

Yukine raises an eyebrow at him, not comprehending. Yato gets a sick feeling as he hears a 'no.'

"Shit- do you know this one?" He points to another spot on the book's page, and Yukine turns his head away, pouting at the wall.

"No."

His face is a deep shade of red now, and Yato stares in mute horror. How the hell had this brat been playing if he didn't know how to read music? He said he had been playing for a year- so why didn't he know what note that was?

Yato taps at the top of the page, right on an eighth note. "Do you know what kind of note this is?"

Yukine takes a glance at it. "It's short, right?" Yato looks at him numbly, and seeing his expression, Yukine throws his hands up into the air. "I don't know how to read music, okay?"

"Yeah, I figured that much out." Yato snaps, before sighing and moving to sit down. "How have you managed this far without knowing the basics?"

The kid slumps in his seat dejectedly, blowing his bangs out of his face. "I joined the school orchestra late, and just played everything by ear. I can play all my scales that way, at least the major ones. I just listen to stuff until I get it." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I was trying to learn the minor ones, but I couldn't figure out who it went."

He faked it. He faked knowing how to read music for an entire year, and no-one was the wiser. Some part of Yato is morbidly impressed. He obviously wasn't tone deaf, if he could manage that much.

Still, how did the little brat manage to get this far when he didn't know what a damn eighth note was? Yato breathes out heavily, setting the method book on his knee. There was no way he was going to teach this scruffy kid music on top of everything else. No goddamned way. Yato turns his head to look at him, folding his arms tight against his chest. "Do you know where the diner 'Little Luck' is?"

Yukine narrows his eyes. "Yeah, why?"

"I work there. You can stop by tomorrow and I-" Yato heaves a heavy sigh. He was doing this, and he was a foolish bastard. "I'll try and teach you the basics so you don't keep falling on your face."

Yukine pouts a little. "I wasn't falling on my face." he defends as Yato shoves the method book back at him. The pages flutter, and he wonders how much of it the kid could actually play when he couldn't read the damn thing.

"You want my help or not, squeaky?" Yato snaps back, and Yukine snatches the book from him and tucks it back under his arm. He huffs a 'fine' under his breath and Yato leans in. "What was that? I don't want to be stood up like a ditched date again."

Yukine shoots him a hateful look and turns his face away. "Fine. I'll be there, you weirdo."

Yato stands up, brushing off the fronts of his pants before kneeling to grab his violin. "I'd prefer 'sensei' at this point."

"Eat shit." Yukine replies seamlessly.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

"No- Fuck, that's entire space is A. It goes FACE up from the bottom-"

"I know that, you pushy asshole!"

"Obviously not, since you thought that was a C- and don't call me pushy."

Yukine shoves the method book away from him, sending a mechanical pencil rolling to the opposite side of the table. Yato reaches out to grab it before it falls off the edge. "You are so hopeless. This is gonna take weeks at least, and my breaks are only fifteen minutes long."

The kid shoots him an ugly look, orange eyes tinged with what Yato can only imagine is hate. "Why don't you just give up then?" He rubs an index finger over the surface of the table, gaze dropping to the glass. "This table is greasy, do you even wipe down these things?"

Yato ignores the attempt at a topic change. "I'm not gonna be able to sleep at night if I know some cello player is stumbling through pieces without even knowing the notes. It's an insult to music." He hands the pencil back. "Fill in the spaces again, and then do the lines."

"How the hell am I supposed to remember them?" Yukine mumbles under his breath, and Yato shrugs.

The bell rings as someone enters the diner, and Yato slides out of the booth. He was sure he was running over his break time anyway, and the last thing he wanted was for Daikoku to chew him out for being lazy again. "Make up a rhyme. Acrostics are pretty useful."

The kid sighs something under his breath that Yato doesn't hear as he walks away, and as Yato slips behind the counter again, he comes face to face with Hiyori. "The usual?" he asks, and she looks up from her wallet to smile at him.

"Yep! Rehearsal let out early today, so I'm here."

Her lips are really pink, and Yato can't tell if it's lipstick or not. He snaps out of his weird reverie fast enough to not look weird, and mumbles a quick 'sure' before disappearing into the kitchen.

Hiyori has exact change on the counter when he gets back, and he trades the cake for the coins as he swipes the money into the cash register. She fumbles with her wallet for a moment before drawing out three five yen coins, and with a friendly smile, she drops them into the tip jar before turning away.

They land with cheery pings, clattering down into the jar to rest with the other coins and the stray yen notes, and Yato watches her leave before shutting the register.

Yukine's gaze follows him thoughtfully as he returns to the booth, looking simultaneously curious and smug. "She's cute."

"She's out of your league, twerp."

Yukine snorts. "Out of yours, too."

Yato grabs Yukine's notebook to check his work, bitterly ignoring the fact that the little snot-nose was right.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

He's late to work that Thursday.

It's cold, but he forces his way up to the bus station anyways, losing track of time as a rare number of tips start flooding in. He packs up and rushes to Kofuku's anyway. No use missing work, and Yukine was probably waiting on him, if the brat hadn't already left to find something better to do.

Yato opens the doors and forces himself inside, brushing the stray snow off his shoulders with an impatient hand. His bangs are wet from the melted snow, sticking strands to his forehead, and he angrily swipes the hair away from his face.

The bell over the door makes two patrons lift their heads, and as Yato sees blond and brunette, he pauses. Hiyori blinks at him from across the room, and Yato watches Yukine turn around to prop his elbow on the back of the booth.

His voice is dry. "You're late, neet."

"Thanks for reminding me." He drops his case by his feet and starts to shed his jersey jacket, trying to keep all of the melted snow confined to one area of the store. He tries to not to feel Hiyori's inquisitive gaze on him.

He fails. Miserably.

Finally she pipes up, tapping a pencil against the desk to get his attention. "You play?"

Yato straightens. "Violin."

She tips her head, gesturing to the case by her feet. "Viola." Her gaze steals to Yukine as Yato approaches the table. "He said he plays cello. I was helping him with key signatures."

"Key signatures already?" he teases. The paper between them is littered with haphazard notes and little diagrams, and Yato is sort of impressed. "Damn Yukine, you're really excelling."

Yukine scrunches his face up and sticks his tongue out at him. "I'm not hopeless like you. Hiyori is a better teacher, anyway."

"First name basis already? Watch yourself, shrimp." Yukine knees the side of his thigh for that, and Yato stumbles dramatically away from the blow. He glances at Hiyori as he stands by the corner, feeling farther away from them than two feet. "Did Kofuku already get your order?"

Hiyori stands up, brushing out the wrinkles out of her coat. "No, would you mind?"

"Nope." Yato dumps his coat into the spot besides Yukine, ignoring the the kid's hiss of displeasure as melted snow sloughs off the jacket onto his arm. "Yukine, watch my violin for a sec."

Yukine grumbles something in response, but Yato ignores it for the sake of grabbing his apron from the rack by the back room. Hiyori has the money by the time he gets back out with the cake, and she smiles at him, leaning her elbows on the counter. "Are you tutoring him?"

Yato swipes the money into the register. "Sorta."

"Sorta?"

Sighing, Yato crosses his arms, tapping his sleeve with an index finger. "Kid's been playing for a year and doesn't know how to read music, somebody has to teach him the basics if he wants to get good."

Hiyori arches a brow, giving him a look somewhere between confusion and curiosity. "So you decided to do it."

He wants to get defensive, cover his tracks just in case she knows something about him, but he resists the urge. What the fuck could she know? She was just some random viola player for some local orchestra. A normal high school girl with an interesting talent. Yato crosses his arms over the counter, leaning the register stool up onto two wobbly legs. "Yeah. He wouldn't have quit nosing around me at the bus terminal, so I finally caved."

Yukine smacks his pencil down a few tables away. "I can hear you! And I wasn't nosing!"

"You watched me for days, you little street urchin!" Yato retorts, and he hears a muffled laugh. Hiyori has her hand over her mouth, and she waves her free hand.

"Sorry, I've just never seen such an unlikely friendship." She grabs the bag off the counter, smiling brightly at him. "I'll see you guys tomorrow. We should play together sometime, both of you." She grabs her case and the door jingles as she leaves, leaving the diner in silence.

Yato breaks it by leaning back, letting the stool rock back onto four legs with a dull 'clank.' It echoes with a sense of finality, and the awkwardness intensifies as Yukine taps the cap of his pen against the tabletop. Yato crosses the room in a few long strides, and notices Yukine's fidgeting as he slips into the booth across from him. "I see you got along just fine without me." He feels stupid for questioning him over it. He feels stupider for feeling left out.

Yukine rolls his eyes and glances out the window. "Well I was waiting for your slow ass, but she saw the method book and insisted on helping."

"I see." Yato tips his head, resting his chin in his palm. "Maybe you should ask her to tutor you."

Shoving people away was easy, especially if they were fourteen and shouldn't be around someone like you anyway. Yato falls carefully back into the isolating rhythm, steps wearing in common footprints.

Yukine huffs defensively. "Maybe I will, you jealous old man."

Maybe he will.

Like it would matter, the kid would probably be better off like that anyway- maybe he could make some friends, get a music scholarship. Have a life. Yato ignores his own thoughts to snark at him. "Hey, I have four years on you. Respect your elders."

Yukine shoots him a glare and sits back in his seat, shivering a little as he crosses his arms tighter. He pulls his feet up onto the seat, bringing his knees close to his chest, and he looks ten instead of fourteen. Cold and scared. Yato is reminded of that night two years ago, spent on metal bench, and the resemblance is uncanny enough that Yato's mood takes another nosedive into the (bitterly familiar) realm of 'shitty.'

A voice makes him look up. "You're only eighteen?"

The look on Yukine's face is incredulous, and Yato worries his lip between his teeth. "Yeah. You caught me, kid. I'm only half an adult."

Yukine doesn't seem as shocked as he should be, and he stays quiet for a long moment.

"How did you know how old I was?"

"Your uniform lets me know you're in a certain grade, dumbass."

The kid sits up, ruffled. "I didn't think old people kept up with that shit!"

For some reason, that makes Yato laugh. He sniffs as the mirth dies down, and he turns to watch the streetlights flick on outside, the flickery, dim bulbs lighting up the street in shades of blue-white. The silence holds, and for some reason it feels something close to comfortable. After a long moment Yato sits up. "It's getting late, don't you have people waitin' on ya?"

A bad thing to say. Yukine's jaw sets and he turns to glare out the window, looking past the glass to the street. "No."

Simple answers can be deceiving.

Yato takes that one with a grain of salt.

He hears a door shut in the back, and Daikoku leans out of the breakroom to glare at him. "You still got an hour left, slacker. Get back to work. Being late doesn't give you a pass to be a bum in my store."

Shifting to stand, Yato knocks on the tabletop. "Kid- Yukine." The blond looks up at his own name, and Yato meets his eyes. "Stay safe." He almost adds a 'getting home' or some equally mundane phrase to make things feel normal, but the poorly concealed bruise under Yukine's collar makes him think otherwise. He needed all the help he could get.

A flicker of something goes through Yukine's eyes, but it's gone as he jerks his head in the other direction. "Whatever. I don't need someone like you worrying over me. It's not even dark yet."

Yato shrugs nonchalantly, humming. Whatever. The kid was right, he didn't need some piss-poor excuse for a street musician worrying over him anyway. He could probably use someone like Hiyori worrying over him, someone smart enough to give a shit when it counted. Someone with a future beyond odd jobs and busting tables.

He adjusts the apron knot at the small of his back before following Daikoku into the kitchen, and by the time he comes back, the familiar head of blond hair is gone.

He tries not to feel the dread in the pit of his stomach as he gets back to work.


	4. Silver

_when i find myself slipping back into old memories,_  
 _old patterns, and old footprints-_  
 _when i find myself spitting up the past-_  
 _i'll try to remember the warmth of your smile._

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Mopping sweat from his forehead, Yato straightens his back, feeling his spine cry out in protest. The last of the water swirls as it goes down the drain in the slanted floor, and his knees crack and ache as he pushes himself to his feet. Kneeling on cold, wet tile did wonders for the joints, he's sure of it. He dumps the scrub-brush and the rag back into the empty bucket to his left, frowning as he surveys the bathroom.

Three hours of work for some shit pay.

The landlord comes to stand in the doorway, hand on her broad hip, and Yato turns around to greet her. She has an impressed look on her aged face, but he almost feels too tired to bask in the inevitable praise.

 _Almost._

"Wow, I didn't expect such a thorough job for so cheap! I'm glad you were recommended to me."

"It's what I do, quick and affordable." Yato says brightly. "Who recommended me to you?"

The woman smiles at him, a red lipstick smile Yato's sure must be recently applied. "Oh, just a boy who drops by the bank often. A tall brunet with glasses." She tips her head. "You're such a cutie though, what are you doing scrubbing bathrooms?"

Kazuma, huh? He knew the guy was decent below all of his devotion to his psycho boss. "Gotta pay for college somehow." Yato lies easily, keeping his lopsided smile intact. The landlord gives a sympathetic glance before handing his pay, which feels strangely thick.

The woman winks at him. "There's a tip in there, thanks for coming so quickly! You're like a delivery god." Yato bows at her before moving to grab his boots from the doorstep. "I'll call you again!" She calls out to him when he's halfway out the door, and he waves a hand and smiles back.

"I'll look forward to it." She probably wouldn't, but the sentiment is nice anyways. He hops down the stairs of the apartment complex, brushing the dirt clinging to the wet knees of his jeans.

Delivery god.

It had a nice ring to it.

He takes a shortcut to Kofuku's, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he steps into the store. The back of Hiyori's head greets him again, and she turns to wave at him. "Oh hey! Kofuku was telling me it was your day off."

"Yeah." Yato says slowly, drawing out the vowels. He wasn't sure if he was being paranoid or not, but it seemed Kofuku had become intent on slipping his name into every conversation with Hiyori she had, just for good measure. He should have known better than to tell her about the 'incident.' He shifts uncomfortably back onto his heels, not liking the way Kofuku was looking at him. "I came here to see Yukine, actually."

The kid is nowhere in sight, and Yato wonders if he forgot. It was unlikely, but not impossible. He did have an existing track record for disappearing without a trace, only to crop up the next day with a passable excuse.

Hiyori taps her lips thoughtfully. "I was wondering where he was too. He's usually here when I drop in."

The dread from the other day comes back to settle thickly in his chest, and Yato clears his throat. "'fuku, can I wait here for a bit?"

The girl in question looks up from the cookie she's eating, bubblegum pink hair bobbing, and she swallows before responding. "Of course, Yatty! You're always welcome here."

"Can I stay too? I had some workbooks for him to borrow." Hiyori pipes up from behind him, and Yato turns around to meet her eyes.

Her? Had Yukine actually gone off to replace him, after all? The conniving brat didn't even have the decency to lay him off with dignity. Could at least give a guy a two week notice, for fuck's sake.

Yukine certainly was good at finding friends in odd places, though.

"Sure. I'm sure he'll be here eventually." He says dumbly, not sure had to question her relationship with him without sounding like a jackass.

She takes a seat at the booth Yukine usually takes, and Yato lingers in place, unsure if he should join her not. Hiyori looks up from her bag after a moment, meeting his eyes expectantly. "You can sit down, you know. There's no motorcycles coming our way."

"Very funny." Yato snipes back as he sits down, huffing out a sigh as he looks out the window. Hiyori sets out a few books onto the table, and Yato recognizes them as literature and calculus workbooks. He furrows his brows, reaching forward to turn one around. "I didn't know he asked you to tutor him in other places too. Isn't that stuff a little high level?"

Hiyori looks up, blinking. "Oh, he goes to the middle school close to the concert hall. He caught me after a rehearsal a couple times. He mentioned that some of his classes go too slowly for him, so I offered to give him lessons in a couple higher level things."

Propping his chin in his hand, Yato frowns thoughtfully at the books. He really was getting all the help he could get, wherever he could get it. Yato wonders what for. There was no way he was piling work on himself because he was bored. "You sure are a good Samaritan."

"I'm just doing what you're doing." She says matter-of-factly. "I guess you inspired me to help him achieve something."

Yato isn't able to keep the surprise off his face this time. He looks up, but Hiyori is already back to rummaging in her bag. She pulls out another book, and Yato averts his eyes back to the window as she says something else.

"What inspired you to help him?"

 _'You.'_ Yato thinks bitterly. They truly had come full circle.

Instead he heaves a sigh, drumming his fingers against the table. "I just couldn't let some cello player go around playing stuff by ear, I guess." Not a lie, but not the full truth, either. He wasn't entirely sure what pressed him to help the kid, aside from the looming bad karma at his back. She'd helped him, if he didn't pay forward the favor, he'd end up being the next one with a dislocated shoulder. Or at least if he believed anything the three-fold rule stood for. He didn't have much of a basis when it came to beliefs, anyway.

Hiyori hums thoughtfully. "He's a little secretive, don't you think?"

Secretive.

The long sleeves, the high collars, the jumpy behavior. Yato is reminded briefly of Yukine's late entrance from a few weeks prior, with the messy concealer and the well-rehearsed lie.

Secretive wasn't the word he would use.

He agrees anyway. No use pointing out the details, if she didn't see them herself already. "Yeah. No use prying anything out of him, though. You'd have better luck opening a clam with how tight-lipped he is."

"I suppose you're right." Hiyori says quietly. The mood dips for a moment before she brightens, leaning forward to look at him better. "That reminds me, I have a favor to ask."

Yato narrows his eyes. Favors were oftentimes things the asker didn't want to do themselves, and he tried to avoid doing things for free. Half-broke runaways couldn't afford doing anything with the word 'favor' tagged onto it. "What kind of favor?"

"I still haven't you or Yukine play. I was wondering if we could play a trio together sometime." Hiyori tips her head, and Yato watches her hair catch on her collar. "I think it would be fun, and maybe I can encourage him to try out for the Tokyo Directional Orchestra next year. He seems to trust you the most, so he might be more willing if you're there."

The last statement makes him look back up to meet her eyes, and he tries to look nonchalant despite how taken aback he feels. Yukine trusting him. Wasn't that a good joke. He's sure the kid has been looking for a way out from under him since the start. He almost sighs as he moves on to the point.

A trio. He hadn't played with anyone else in a while; not since he left home.

"It will cost you. I don't play for free, you know." He says, and Hiyori makes an aggrieved noise.

"Cost me? How much?"

Yato holds up his hand, spreading his fingers out. "Five."

"Five hundred thousand yen?!" She half-shrieks, Yato sits up quickly, almost bumping heads with her as they both lurch forward.

They both jerk back onto opposite sides of the table, and the bewildered stare Yato gives her is close to offended. "Who the hell charges that kind of money for a performance?!" Kofuku, maybe, but not him. He huffs out a forceful breath. "Five yen."

Hiyori blinks slowly at him. "Only five? That cheap?"

"First you're calling me expensive, now you're calling me cheap? I'm no dollar store musician!"

She ignores him, rummaging around her bag for her wallet. Finding it, she picks one out of the front pocket before handing it out expectantly. It glints in the evening light flooding through the window, and Yato almost hesitates as he takes it, feeling the cold press of the coin against his palm. The gesture reminds him of a week prior, only reversed in the strangest of ways.

Sitting back, Yato flicks it backwards before catching it in midair. "Consider it done."

"So you'll do it?" Hiyori questions, and Yato rolls his eyes.

"My word is bond, but don't make me second guess myself."

Hiyori moves to set her chin in her hand. "Why the low price? I'm sure you could have at least gotten two thousand yen out of me, if you'd wanted."

Yato grins sharply at her. "So you're saying I could get more money out of this arrangement?" Not that he really wanted to; being five yen indebted to some schoolgirl was enough, he didn't need another thousand and change tacked onto the bill. Yato stretches his legs out under the table, slumping against the booth. "I'm not exactly sure what the going rate for a street musician is, so I'll start small."

He wasn't sure it could get much smaller than this, so for now, it seemed like a good starting point. He'd be up to Kofuku's insane pricing eventually, he figures. He's almost surprised when he hears Hiyori laugh. She has her hand hidden behind her mouth again, and she hunches over, shoulders shaking. "That sure is a small starting rate." She gasps out in between giggles. "You could place it a bit higher."

Yato sniffs indignantly, disguising his smile as a scoff. "I'm not including tips, mind you."

Hiyori's phone buzzes urgently from the other side of the table, and she reaches out to grab it, taking a glance at the screen before jumping into action. "Oh! I forgot, I've got a meeting with someone this afternoon." She stuffs her phone into her coat pocket before grabbing her bag, and Yato is about to remind her about the workbooks when she slides them towards him. "Can I leave you with these? I trust you to get them to him."

His ears burn at the word 'trust', (was that becoming a reoccurring theme with him now?) but Yato reaches forward to take them anyway. "Yeah, sure. Got it."

"Favors are becoming your game, aren't they?" She jokes, buttoning her coat, and Yato looks up.

He supposes they are, between the myriad of things he's done lately. "Before you know it, I'll be working for free." He says sarcastically.

Hiyori smiles brightly at him. "I'll make sure the tip is worth it, but I won't stop bugging you until you fulfill that promise." She turns to leave, waving at him over her shoulder. "C'ya tomorrow, Yato!"

His face burns, heat flushing in his ears and cheeks, and Yato turns his face away to scowl at the floor. As the door swings shut, he hears a chair knock over in the direction of the kitchen. Kofuku is out of the break room like a bat out of hell, and Yato barely has a moment to brace himself before she tackles him, almost knocking him into the booth. "Yatty! That went so so well!" She squeals into his ear, and Yato slaps a hand against the table as he tries to stay upright.

"You were listening the whole time?!" He half-shouts, and Kofuku pulls away.

"Of cou~urse!" She sing-songs, grinning slyly at him. "I knew it was fate! You and Hiyoriin were destined to meet. In my diner, too!"

"Yeah, sure, and your hair is naturally pink."

She pouts at him. "Of course it is. Everything about me is tickled pink." She says, and Yato rolls his eyes, moving to hold her at arm's length. She clambers off of him to flounce off in the direction of the counter. "You know, Hiyoriin was right: you should charge more for your violin playing."

Yato stands up, brushing his hands over the fronts of his pants. "And how much do you suggest, o' mighty goddess of fortune?"

"Ten" She says smartly, "Hundred thousand."

Snorting, Yato stacks the workbooks into a pile. Ten hundred thousand sound like the running rate for Kofuku's services, although he isn't sure what exactly she does besides stir cookie dough and greet customers. He's sure sometimes she goes out of her way to make sure her hair is meticulously dyed, but other than that, Kofuku was a mystery. "I don't know what I should have expected."

Kofuku hops up onto the counter, nabbing another cookie from the covered dish next to the register. "Maybe you should try out for the Directional Orchestra, Yatty."

The comment makes Yato bark out a bitter laugh. The orchestra was for honor roll students with talent and actual home lives, not poor throwaways with run down apartments and dead-end jobs. The Directional was for students on a fast track to musical school, or an impressive mark for college. Not for people like him. "For what? Those things don't pay."

"They help pay for colleges. It's not too late, you know." Daikoku's voice makes Yato jump, and he whirls around to see the older man tying his apron. "You're only nineteen."

Yato folds his arms, sitting back against the table. The blunt edge of the wooden booth makes his tailbone hurt, but the pain is steadying, a throb that keeps him from focusing on his unsteady heartbeat. He gives the floor a sullen look. "I can't afford college, we both know that."

Daikoku shrugs. "Those rich musical types give great scholarships to prodigies." He picks up a tray, setting it against his hip, and Yato feels his gaze from across the room. "You are still one of those, right?"

"No." Yato says quickly, voice curt. "I'm a street musician who takes coin tips."

Daikoku hums quietly in response and moves to start gathering dishes off the tables, and as the clink of ceramic replaces conversation, Yato turns away to fix his gaze on the tabletop.

Kofuku and Daikoku had been happy to hire him despite his obvious background as a runaway, and after months of prying, they'd learned enough to make him concerned, had they not stayed so annoyingly trustworthy. Even if they had figured our his real name and background, they'd kept their lips sealed, as far as he knew.

Damn them for being decent, and damn them for giving him a reason to stay. He's sure he could have made it a couple more cities over, had they not offered him a night in their breakroom over a half-price dinner. That night had started the chain of events that landed him on their payroll under a fake name, and while he had been content living off tip money, the stable income was... alright. Better than alright.

Yato glares at the table for a moment longer before gathering his things, and as he tucks his jacket under his arm, he spots a familiar pink on the other side of the table.

"Stupid girl left her scarf here." He mutters under his breath, not feeling half as irritated as he sounded. He leans over the table to nab it, catching the scent of flowery shampoo as he slings it over his shoulders, and he lets out a pent-up sigh. Of course she'd leave her scarf. Some random brunette with a savior instinct, a kitten wallet, and a pink scarf.

She'll probably come looking for it tomorrow, and she just might thank him and drop an extra five yen in the tip jar, just for the favor. He folds the scarf into a neat square and leaves it on the table in the breakroom before starting the cold, miserable trek back home, and her comment about favors follows him down the street.

 _"Favors are becoming your game, aren't they?"_

He folds his arms tighter around the textbooks he's carrying, ducking his head down further to shield himself from the cold. He didn't even know when he would be seeing the kid again; the little twerp stood him up today too, but Yato still couldn't force himself to deny Hiyori's request. Whether he's doing the favor for her or for the snot nosed kid, he doesn't know, but one thing is clear.

Yato was his name, and favors were unwillingly becoming his game.


	5. Lead

_"sorry" means you'll never do it again,_  
 _and my apologies hang suspended in midair_  
 _like unopened Hallmark cards_  
 _for government holidays_

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

 _Again._

Yato follows orders. He follows the familiar memories of strings under fingertips, the notes he doesn't have to look at to remember. He has a mental checklist for times like these: posture, tone quality, rhythm, tempo. He goes down the list as he plays, muscle memory guiding him when his mind wanders elsewhere.

He fumbles. The run-on of notes mashes together and jumbles in the middle of the page he's looking at, and his mind goes blank as he waits.

The snap of the ruler doesn't come. His arms ache anyway, and he drops the violin from his shoulder to rest by his hip. Breathe. The stagnant air of his apartment still smells like dust and ink, dry paper and glue, memories and nightmares.

 _I didn't mean to, I'm sorry._

The phantom stinging in his arms makes his head hurt, and the blood rushing in his ears makes it worse. He drops his bow to bring his free hand up to his face, feeling the stuttering exhale of his own breathing brush past his fingers. He presses his hand over his eyes and tries to breathe again- in, out; inhale, exhale.

After a moment Yato dips to pick up his bow off the dingy carpeted floor. Practice makes perfect; his hands didn't even shake while remembering this time.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

 _I don't want your apologies, Yaboku._

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yukine has another bruise today.

It's hidden under the sleeve of his jacket, a purple, blossoming handprint around his wrist, and Yato stares at it as the kid goes over accidentals and ledge notes. The hand has wide fingers, a large thumb. Or maybe the bruise just made it look bigger. Shadows always took up more space than the real thing.

 _"You shouldn't have to pay for the space you take up."_

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was a liar. Yukine had obviously paid for taking up space, at least this time.

"Oi, don't you have work to do, or are you going to stare into the table for another five minutes?"

Yato looks up, finding orange as he lifts his head. He looks away, drumming his fingers. "Yeah, yeah. My break ends in two minutes, don't short me those."

He gets shorted them anyways as the bell rings by the front of the store. Yato's eyes steal involuntarily to the clock. Was it time for her visit already? He thought he had another hour before she came in- was it Daylight Savings already? He always missed those stupid events.

It's not her, just some woman probably coming in for a cup of coffee, and Yato shifts out of his seat to go help her. She has brown hair, cropped close to her shoulders, paired with clear brown eyes and a soft, familiar face shape. She smiles brightly at him as he comes to greet her. "I've never actually been in here myself before."

Yato raises his brows, but she beats him to the punch, waving her hands enthusiastically before he can respond. "Nevermind that. Can I have a cup of coffee with coconut creme cake? To go, please."

"Sure, no problem." It really isn't, but even if it was, he doubts it would matter anyway. He suddenly feels himself longing for the next hour to pass quickly, just so he could see her and give her scarf back. Not because he cared- no, never that- it was just that the stupid scarf in the breakroom was giving him anxiety. What if Kofuku took it? She did have a thing for pink.

He comes back out with a slice of cake and a styrofoam cup, but the woman stops him before he can get the coffee pitcher. Yato pauses, lingering in the spot besides her table, and he sees Yukine raise his head from a few tables away.

"I was wondering if you have a lost and found box."

They do, some old cardboard shoebox filled to the brim with children's wallets and stray house-keys, among other things like umbrellas and the occasional planner. Yato's sure he stole his current jacket from that same box, after the original owner stayed missing for a convenient two months.

Yato nods. "Um, yeah. I'll get it for ya." He disappears behind the counter to duck and grab it, dragging out the box to set it on the counter. The woman moves to follow him, leaning to peer into the box, and Yato tries to place her face. He's sure he's seen her somewhere before.

She takes a quick glance over the various contents before shaking her head. "No, no." she looks up, meeting his eyes. "My daughter thinks she might have left her scarf here last night, do you know anything about that?"

The pieces click and snap together, and Yato blinks blankly. "Hiyori?"

"Yes, do you know her?" The woman brightens. "She comes by every day to fetch me cake, although i must admit it, I feel bad for sending her all this way every day."

Yato's fingers twitch at his sides, and he looks away. "Yeah, she's a regular these days. Her scarf is in the back room, I'll go get it."

He disappears into the backroom to nab the scarf off the table, setting it on the counter as his mind wanders. He wonders what he should say. 'She also pushed me out of the way of a motorcycle, so I suppose I should apologize for putting your daughter in mortal danger. Thanks for dropping by, though. I'll get your coffee now.'

Yeah, brilliant.

If the woman notices his faraway expression, she doesn't react. "Oh, thank you! It's a shame she couldn't make it today. She's doing very well in the orchestra, she even had a meeting with the director today about a solo."

"Oh?" Yato says absentmindedly, moving to fill her cup with coffee.

The woman wraps her hands around it, warming her fingers. "Yes, I do believe he's new. He traveled a lot for about two years for family purposes. I hear he's settling down to conduct the orchestra permanently now."

Yato pays polite attention to what she's saying as clicks the coffee pitcher back into the machine. Family issues. Probably a new baby or something. Maybe the guy got married. It's not much a difference to him, anyway. He's not too concerned in the director of the orchestra, but the fact that it was about Hiyori piques his interest anyway. Aside from being a familiar face and his one-time savior, he didn't know much about her.

Maybe it was better that way, he's not sure yet.

He can see Yukine listening in on the conversation, his chin propped in his palm. The kid was obviously curious too, but from what he could tell, Yukine seemed curious about everything. Hiyori's mother taps thoughtfully on her cheek with her index finger. "Oh, I can't remember his name."

Probably some big name taking up the reins to train the next generation of musicians. There were always those martyr types among the orchestra circles, the prodigy teachers. Yato grabs a tray of glasses from the corner of the counter, readying himself to carry them back towards the sink.

"Oh!" Hiyori's mother exclaims, leaning forward against the counter. "I remember now. Kouto. Director Kouto."

 _He'll find you anyway, you do remember last time, don't you?_

Yato's heart stumbles over itself. It drops, clattering somewhere down near the bottom of his ribcage, and he feels the blood pound in his temples. His ears are ringing- oh god Hiyori's mother was still saying something under all the warning bells in his head- and Yato's grip on the tray loosens, tipping it over to one side. A glass slips to crash to his left, and he snaps out of it fast enough to avoid any more casualties.

Yukine is out of his seat by the time he looks back up, and Yato watches numbly as the kid drops his knees to pick up a shard that skittered in his direction. "What the hell, Yato?"

Hiyori's mother joins in. "Are you alright? You look dazed, honey."

 _Honey_. Oh that's fresh. Yato's hands are shaking, and he shuts his mouth to purse his lips into a line. How long has it been since someone used an endearment on him? He couldn't tell if it made him feel better or worse. "I'm alright, I just felt dizzy. Sorry."

A hand lands on his shoulder, and Yato whips around to meet a pair of brown eyes. Hiyori's face slips through his head for a moment, before it's swept away by the gentle aging of her mother's features. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Just a little tired." He pulls his eyes away to drop and help Yukine, picking up the shards with trembling hands. Yukine's eyes flick to his fingers, but he averts his eyes quickly. Yato doesn't miss the way his frown deepens.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

"Dazed? That's it?" Yukine leans forward to get a better look at his face, palms flat against the glossy wood of the table. "You looked like you were close to passing out."

Yato grits his teeth. "It's nothing. I just felt a little sick." His knees hurt from where he'd knelt on glass, and he reaches down to rub one leg through his jeans. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Yukine sits back with a huff, folding his arms against his thin chest. "Cause I had to help you clean up the mess you made, you idiot."

"No-one asked you to, brat!" Yato fires back.

The kid snorts before turning to look out the window. Yato hadn't expected him to help, but the fact that he did makes his chest ache a little bit. A lot about today made his chest ache.

Yato puts his chin in his hand, following Yukine's gaze out the window. So his father had either given up on him, or finally tracked him down. Either way, Yato has the urge to drop everything and skip town. His mind wanders to the tupperware in his cabinet, full of his meager savings. He hadn't even found anything to spend the money on yet; maybe bus tickets out of town were the thing he was subconsciously saving up for. He wonders if he could pack and get out of town by morning. The longer he stayed, the more likely his father would be to find him, if he hadn't already accomplished that already.

He swallows back the bitter taste in his mouth. Just when things started seeming halfway decent.

He's pondering what bus can get him the farthest from here when Yukine finally says something, pulling him out of his miserable thoughts. "You still look out of it. You were fine earlier."

Earlier. Before the bomb detonated. Yato taps his fingers over his cheek, avoiding the kid's eyes. "I'm just tired."

"From talking to Hiyori's mom about a new orchestra director?" Yukine questions, and his voice edges just close enough towards harsh for Yato to flinch.

For a naive fourteen year old who hung out with broke street musicians, he was perceptive as hell. Yato shifts uneasily. "It's nothing. Just a weird mood swing, I guess."

Yukine pouts and sits back. At least he knows when to give up, Yato thinks. He wishes that his earlier self had learned that lesson as early as this kid had. The two share a long silence, and when it draws out enough to become awkward, Yukine sighs and swipes his notebook into his backpack. "It's gonna get dark soon. I should go."

Yato doesn't turn his head away from the window. "Got a curfew, kid?"

"Nah." Yato hears the pause in Yukine's voice. "I just don't like walking home in the dark. See you tomorrow?" Shifting in his seat, Yato meets the kid's eyes. They hold gazes for a moment before Yato sighs heavily.

"Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

 **Short shoutout to C. for the kind review, it really touched me.**


	6. Antimony

_waking up in the middle of the night_  
 _drenched in sweat for no particular reason_  
 _with the lingering taste of a nightmare_  
 _hovering over everything_

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

 _Please don't do this._

 _No-one likes a beggar, Yaboku._

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yato wakes up to a dark room with his face wet. He swipes his fingers under his eyes, scowling when he comes away with tears. The air of his room stings the wet tracks on his face, and Yato growls as he tries to scrub away the cold.

His face tingles after he's finished, and he huffs out a sigh.

The diagonal scar below his elbow looks bright in ugly in the yellow light of his lamp, and Yato traces it with his eyes. It's straight and stark against his tanned skin, the line of metal ruler long gone. He wonders where it is. In a landfill somewhere, maybe? In a box? In a desk drawer? He knows part of it is here, branded into his skin from an age-old scar, but a shadow is only part of a whole.

The clocks reads 3:44 when he flips open his phone.

Yato decides to go for a walk.

Pulling on his familiar pair of tracksuit pants, he grabs his boots from the spot by the door. He doesn't bother with a jacket, he likes the bite of the cold anyway.

The city is still bright, even now, but it feels eerie when everything has panned out into a flat silence. He can hear cars in the distance, far away from where he is, and he wonders if anyone else within a mile of him is still awake and wandering. Yato stuffs his hands into his pockets as he continues down the streets. He feels like a sleepwalker, aimlessly looking for something he won't find.

After an hour he decides to head back, looping across the street to head back towards his empty apartment. He hopes no-one decided to rob him in the short hour he's been gone; the plastic container of money and the half-empty bag of rice in his cabinet had to go for something, somewhere.

He almost laughs, as if his tips and old rice were worth much of anything.

The laugh dies in his throat as he thinks idly of Yukine, of Hiyori and Kofuku and Daikoku. Could he really leave? Where the hell would he go? Would any of them really care?

 _'See you tomorrow?'_

He grits his teeth, suddenly feeling the cold as a breeze whips up under his t-shirt. Yeah, maybe the brat would care.

Yato decides to stick around, just for a bit longer.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

'A bit' longer starts off as a day, then stretches into a week, which stretches into a month.

Yato is sure that the chance to back out and run is going to come sooner or later. He knows he's got to get going soon, but Yukine always comes back with more circled notes and bracketed rhythms, and Yato keeps adding days to his sentence. Question marks are littered everywhere in Yukine's music, next to exercises in practice books, in margins of sheet music, scrawled out in his practice logs, and the kid's got enough questions for Yato to write a Q&A book dedicated to him.

Yato answers them in between breaks, his chicken scratches contrasting with Yukine's neat little notes, and for once in years, Yato feels something close to helpful. Sticking around becomes a full-time job, only it pays in much stranger ways than a check at the end of the month.

Hiyori keeps stopping by, and she stays for longer each time, joining them in the booth to point out things he glances over.

The constant stream of questions and concerns dims to a slow trickle, and before long, Yukine's run out of things to bring to him. Yato expecting him to give him that two-week notice he's been expecting, but the kid sticks around, taking the booth in the corner of the diner to do homework after school. Kofuku barely notices the taken table, and Yato doesn't miss the way Daikoku slips him glasses of orange juice when he thinks no-one is looking.

Hiyori's calculus homework replaces the sheet music, and even though Yato can't help much with that- all of his knowledge of calculus slipped away after he stopped attending school- he sits anyways, wondering when the silence will go from companionable to absent. It never does. Yukine just keeps showing up, and if Yato secretly didn't look forward to it, he'd call the kid a nuisance.

It feels weird, the fact that this is quickly becoming his life, but while Yukine doesn't disappear, neither do the mysterious, unexplained injuries.

The bruises are common. Yato spots them on his arms, peeking out from under his collar, under his jaw. He pretends not to notice; the first one had given him as much of an answer as he had needed, although it was in the form of a bad lie on Yukine's part. He doesn't overlook Yukine's schedule either. He goes home late, waiting until the last possible moment to leave, and he pushes his arrival back earlier and earlier, until he's there before Yato's shift. Sometimes the kid will meet him at the bus station, not bothering to stop home first.

Yato knows that game well.

Avoiding home was his favorite pastime at fourteen, although he didn't spend his time hanging around street musicians and honor roll schoolgirls. His home life and his alleyway fights brought home similar bruises. He supposes that only made his father's job easier when it was time for a cover-up story, but it didn't really matter in the long run, anyway, did it? Either way, he doubts Yukine has time for fights, between the homework Hiyori gave him and his loitering habits at Little Luck.

That left a lot of room in the realm of possibility when it came to bruises.

He doesn't ask, though. It was his job to wait, not pry. The kid was bound to turn tail and run the minute Yato brought up himself, anyway.

 _'He seems to trust you the most.'_

Yato hopes Hiyori's words have some semblance of truth to them, for the kid's sake.


	7. Steel

_the tears navigating south down your face_  
 _may have once wet the cheeks_  
 _of Alexander the Great_  
 _for the same reason._

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

It's a while until the Directional is brought up again. Hiyori's rehearsals start running later and later, and as it creeps towards the holiday season, her appearances grow shorter. She always seemed busy when he saw her, sitting down for a fifteen minute break to explain something to Yukine or hand out new homework before dashing off again. To Yato's surprise, their interactions evolve past order-taking and tipping to small talks over the counter as she waits for Yukine to finish equations.

She's just as curious as Yukine is, and her personality quickly unravels until Yato is looking at a complete person from afar. She's an open book, turning pages every time she smiles and points out a mistake in Yukine's work. Yato steals glances at her from the counter, pretending that he doesn't notice the way Yukine looks at her like she's the sun.

He doesn't blame him, not really. She certainly is pretty.

Yato drops his eyes back to the countertop. He reaches out to fiddle with a stray coin that missed the tip jar, dragging it closer with a finger. It's a five yen coin, (those seem to cropping up a lot recently) and studies at the rice design along the edge.

He wonders if he should save the kid the trouble; crushes on older girls never went well. Not as if Yato would know personally.

"Oh!" Hiyori pipes up from the table, hair slipping over her shoulder as she turns to look at him. "I almost forgot to tell you guys. My winter concert is coming up. You two should come!"

Yato raises a brow. "Us?"

"Us?" Yukine parrots automatically, and Hiyori gives them both glances as she stands up.

"Of course. I have two extra tickets, since I paid for my brother and his girlfriend. They can't make it, so I figured I could give them to you." She brushes her skirt off, glancing away. "If you don't want to come, it's alright. I was just putting it out there."

Yato is about to open his mouth to politely decline; going to a place his father was going to be sounded like a bad plan wrapped in a horrendous plan, but Yukine interrupts him before he can get a word out.

"Yeah, sure!" He says a little too excitedly, and Yato grits his teeth while Hiyori isn't looking. He doesn't know if he's ever seen Yukine smile before, and he's disappointed the moment was tainted by the fact he wants to punch the kid in the teeth.

Hiyori turns back to him, her face inquisitive, and Yukine clasps his hands behind her, shooting him a desperate look. Yato is tempted to say no anyway- it wasn't his job to accompany some kid to his crush's concert if he couldn't walk by himself- but something keeps his mouth from wrapping around the syllable.

Sighing, he leans forward against the counter. "I'll try to clear my schedule." There, no definite agreement, but not a 'no' either. Still time to back out, should shit go south. Yato crosses his arms. "When is this, anyway?"

"Next weekend!" Hiyori chirps, gathering her school bag from the booth. "Here, I have the tickets here." She pulls two slips out of her bag, printed with the location and time along the edges, and she gives Yukine one before turning towards him.

The white stub glares at him from the wood counter as she slides it over, and Yato pauses hesitantly before reaching out to take it. Their skin tones are just different for him to notice, the pale tone of her slender fingers contrasting with the tan of his sore hands. Hiyori shoots him a smile that reminds him of Christmas lights. "If something comes up, let me know, okay?"

"Y-yeah." He says back, disguising his stutter as a cough. His hands feel wet, and he winces as he picks up the ticket. Could he smudge ink just from sweating nervously? It would be harder to give the damn thing back if he'd worn all the words off. He folds it between his fingers as Hiyori turns around, and he sees Yukine's grateful glance over her shoulder.

Stupid kid.

Yato props his chin his hand, glancing sourly in the other direction. Hiyori catches his attention, and her hair flutters as she bows in the direction of the register. "Thank you! Both of you." She adjusts her bag on her shoulder, shooting them both smiles as she trots towards the doors. "I'll see you guys there!"

Yeah, he supposes he will. Yato gives the doors a half-hearted glare as they close behind her, and as soon as he's sure she's out of earshot, he whirls on Yukine. "You can't just make plans for me, kid."

"Oi, it's one concert." Yukine says defiantly. "Besides, I can't go alone."

Narrowing his eyes, Yato gives him a look. "Why not. You need a chaperone for your date?"

Yukine sits up quickly, face flushing. "Not a date, you perv." He slumps back in his seat, folding his arms. "She's three years older than me, anyway."

"Oh, the older woman woes." Yato says sarcastically, and Yukine growls.

"What would you know?"

Not much, truthfully. His life had been filled with other concerns, the lightest of which being when he was going to eat next. Yato rolls his eyes anyway. "More than you, runt." He lets his head loll to the side, chin propped in his palm. "Why can't you go alone? You waltz around by yourself all the time during the day, what's a stroll in the dark?"

The question must strike a chord, because Yukine tenses, his flush flaring into a dark red Yato can see from the other side of the room. "I just don't like walking in the dark." he says quietly.

Scared of the dark, huh? Yato closes his eyes and breathes a heavy sigh. "Fine. You cornered me. I'll go to the fu-" he corrects himself quickly. "-concert. I'll go to the concert."

"Why are you so opposed to it anyway?" Yukine questions. "Didn't she save your life?"

Yato's eyes snap open, and he gives the kid an incredulous look. "How did you know about that?"

Yukine glances boredly at his nails. "Kofuku told me."

Dammnit, he knew he shouldn't have told her that. His blind confidence in her blabber-mouth was starting to really bite him in the ass. She could barely hold a plate without dropping it, he should have known better than to trust her with a goddamn secret.

Tired of fighting, Yato turns away to glance at the wall. The kid won, fair and square, and Yato was outwitted, at least this time. Didn't mean he was going to drop it, though. "You do know you owe me double now, right?"

"Fuck off." Yukine says back. Yato can't help the smile that pulls at his lips.

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yukine skips the shop on a Friday. Yato spends his break tracing designs on the tabletop with his fingertips, watching the window with a heavy weight on his chest, but the kid doesn't show.

He finishes his shift like usual, not bothering to say goodbye to Kofuku as he leaves. She's asleep in the breakroom anyway, drooling all over the table Daikoku has put in front of the heater. He grabs his tracksuit jacket and leaves, readying himself to brave the winter wind all the way back to his apartment.

He's almost to the end of the block when footsteps echo behind him, and Yato whips around, half expecting a dim mugger. He almost nails the kid in the face, but Yukine drops at the last second, heaving breaths over his knees. His knuckles are white against his jeans, and Yato spots crimson as the kid lifts his head.

His nose is bloody, the left side of his face sporting a pretty bruise. It's painted onto his cheek in lavender and dusty rose, and the score of red running from his nose drips unsightly onto his upper lip. Yato reaches out, drawing back when Yukine flinches. "Jesus- The fuck happened?"

Yukine stumbles back, and the stretch of concrete between their feet feels farther than two feet. "I just-" He shuts his mouth, throat convulsing. "I got in a fight." Blood drips from his upper lip to splatter on the concrete, and it's a deep red in the dim light of the streetlamp.

"You can't feed me the same shit twice, kid." Yato says, forcing steel into his voice as he moves towards him. Yukine almost steps back again, out of the circle of the streetlight, but he hesitates, letting Yato get closer.

Yato tugs the knot of his scarf free, and Yukine holds his hands up to stop him. "No. You'll get blood on it, stupid."

Even bloody, the kid was still a mouthy little shit. Yato holds it up to face-level, almost wishing the kid was taller. He's too short, and Yato feels too old looming over him like this. "That's the point, you dimwit. Now c'mere."

Yukine looks like he's about to turn tail and run, but he lets Yato press the scarf to his nose anyway. Yato holds it there, swatting the kid's hand away when he tries to interfere.

"I can hold it to my face myself." He says indignantly, muffled through the cloth, and Yato glares at him.

"Is the face of a guy that cares about your pride?"

Yukine shuts up after that, not fighting him when he moves to gingerly wipe the drying blood from his nose. Yato tips his chin up once he's done, studying his face. The bruise is quickly making shapes, although he can't tell if the concentrated purple circles are from rings or knuckles.

He either got punched or backhanded, one of the two, and Yato wonders how they didn't break his fucking cheekbone. Kid had a delicate facial structure, after all.

Yukine jerks his chin away after a second, bringing a hand up to rub tenderly at his nose, and Yato sees the half-dried blood on his fingers. The kid moves to wipe it away on his jacket, but Yato lunges to catch him.

"Fuck- wait. Don't ruin your coat."

"What are you, my dad?"

Yato scrubs away the blood from his fingertips with the ruined scarf, not making eye contact. "What are you, six? Only kids wipe their hands on their clothes." He snaps back, and Yukine huffs, turning his face away.

When he's done, Yato let his hands go. They drop limply to the kid's sides, and he watches the side of Yukine's face. "You gotta tell somebody, you know." Yato says seriously, and Yukine whirls on him.

"What the _fuck_ do you know? You don't even _know_ me." Anger tints the kid's pale face a stark red, and Yato narrows his eyes. Good question. He didn't know the kid, he just knew that someone was giving him bruises, and it wasn't some middle-schooler with a debt to collect.

Yukine's expression melts into confusion as Yato yanks up the sleeves to his jersey, and the scars on his arms are glaringly obvious in the light of the street.

He shoves his forearms in Yukine's direction. "The fuck do _I_ know? Why do you think I'm here, working some dead-end job for tips, just to pay my rent?" Yato says forcefully, voice dangerously low. "Why do you think I'm eighteen and half-homeless? Why do you think I have these scars, kid?"

Yukine's mouth moves like he's trying to say something, but a long moment passes and he closes it. Yato reaches out to grab his arm, pushing up the sleeves to his olive-green coat, and Yukine doesn't fight him. There are bruises up his arms, a garden of purple-pink fingerprints, and Yato's gaze moves to his face. "Who's doing this?"

Orange meets blue, and Yukine swallows hard. "M'dad."

Same boat, then. Yato feels a pang of sympathy. He tugs the kid's sleeves down gently, letting go of his arm. Anger is boiling in his chest, but he forces it down into a simmer. Now wasn't the time. Breathing out, Yato forces himself to relax. He sees a glimmer of wetness on the kid's bruised cheekbone, but Yukine turns his face towards the street as he dashes it away.

Yato pretends he didn't see it.

Sometimes it's better that way.

After a long moment, he reaches out to ruffle the kid's blond bedhead. "Let's go get something to eat."

 **.:.:.:.:.:.:.:.**

Yukine eats an entire plate of American-style pancakes, before moving on to steal from Yato's, and Yato lets him. For once, he's not really interested in food at all, too caught up in the blood pounding in his temples. He's glad the kid is eating, though, even if it was starting to look like he hadn't eaten in a week.

"You look like shit." Yukine comments through a mouthful of food, and he swallows. "Have you slept?"

He hasn't, but he doesn't think that's why he looks like shit.

That blame could be placed on the bloody kid who ran up to him half an hour prior. Not that he was gonna say that. Yato plays with his unused fork, twirling the tines over the table. "No." Looking up, he catches another glance at Yukine's bruised face. "I don't think you should be commenting on other people's appearances right now, though."

Yukine snorts and forks up another bite of pancake. "I wouldn't make quips, if I were you. The waitress already saw the bloody scarf in your pocket."

The glances from the restaurant employees were the least of his concerns; it was none of their business why he was treating some bruised kid to pancakes anyway. Yato rolls his eyes. "Uh-huh. I'll just tell them you busted your face on a swingset."

"Smart." Yukine comments, dragging the last pancake off Yato's plate to plop it onto his own. He reaches for the syrup, and Yato nudges it towards him with his elbow. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

Yato watches him numbly as he douses the pancake in maple syrup. "Not if you don't want to."

"Good." Yukine says, picking up his fork. "I'm not really in the mood."

"I'll wait." Yato replies, and it's not a lie.


End file.
